So I sat down - alternative ending

I slipped into a reverie about a sad man who couldn't work out why he was sad. He had everything going for him: a privileged background, comfortable surroundings, the respect of family and friends, but still he endured an overwhelming sadness.

He sat in a warm, comfortable study on an evening such as this. The fire burned intensely behind his oak desk and bounced its warm glow off the dark panelled walls. He slid open the shallow desk drawer with his right hand and took out his Service Revolver - a trophy from his War service. He often sat and fingered the weapon during quiet moments of meditation, when the household permitted them.

It was a Webley .38 and it had been at his side throughout the War, through thick and thin. They had shared many moments and he felt a greater affinity with the Webley than with anyone in the house and most of the people he encountered outside. His closest friends were dead and he had little time for reunions and listening to war stories. He felt perfectly self-sufficient.

The revolver was an ugly object, but had an inner beauty by design. Its job in the world was a simple one and it had been single-mindedly designed to achieve it as efficiently as possible. The result was lean and elegant, not pretty. It carried not an ounce of fat.

The gun felt solid in his hand and, though the fire kept the room more than comfortably warm, its metal body was cold to the touch. He wrapped his fingers and thumb around the wooden grip and rotated the cylinder with his left hand. The precise click as each chamber aligned with the hammer brought a satisfied smile to his face.

He drew back the hammer until it locked then raised the gun to the opposite wall. His forefinger curled around the trigger. First pressure - little resistance. Second pressure - a slight stiffening. He released his breath, sighting along the barrel. Click. The hammer snapped home.

Outside, sleet rattled against the window. Rush-hour traffic rumbled past in the early evening mid-winter gloom. Placing the Webley back in the drawer, he got up and walked to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky from the decanter. He strode to the window and looked out to the busy street.

A news-vendor called out the headlines from the opposite pavement, selling copies of the Evening News to commuters hurrying for buses and trains through the sleet. The man leant on a crutch, balanced on his one good leg. The worn greatcoat had travelled the same muddy tracks as the Webley. Framed, straight-backed in the window, he sipped from his glass and lit a cigarette.

Like the news-vendor, he no longer fitted in this street. He put the glass down and strode back over to the desk, where he drew a sheet of headed paper from a drawer and laid it on the blotter. He took up his pen and began to write furiously. Finishing, he read the letter through until he was satisfied.

He pulled open the top drawer and took out the revolver and a small pouch, which he unwrapped. In it were a small bottle of oil, a cloth, cord and some brushes.

He broke the pistol, easing out the cylinder, and began to clean and oil it. He looked down the barrel and through each chamber running the four-by-two cloth through them and inspecting them in what little available light the room offered. He expertly reassembled the revolver and spun the cylinder, then cocked the mechanism and watched the cylinder rotate. Click. The hammer snapped home.

He re-packed the cleaning kit and replaced it in the drawer, then rummaged in the back for a small red cardboard box. He unpicked the lid of the box and drew out a single metal cartridge. Opening up the revolver, he slid the shell into a chamber and moved it round to next in line. The gun closed with a satisfying, positive click.

He returned the ammunition box to the drawer and locked it, then leaned back in the padded leather seat. He breathed heavily twice, then tried the feel of the barrel in his mouth. He closed his lips around the cold metal and recoiled at the barbarity of its contact. He tried opening his lips and the hard steel rattled annoyingly against his teeth. When he tried to hold the gun in the firing position, he found that his control was poor at such an awkward angle. This hadn't occurred to him. But, then, Sandhurst didn't anticipate this moment.

With a sigh, he put the Webley down and stared at it. His watch told him that the maid would be sounding the gong for dinner in twenty minutes. He glanced around the room. What a mess this place was going to be by dinner-time. He quickly picked up the revolver and cocked it. Turning it on its side, he levelled it at his temple.

In a moment of inspiration, he twisted in his seat so that the bullet would exit in the direction of his grandfather's portrait over the fire.

How fitting, he thought. His forefinger curled around the trigger. First pressure - little resistance. Second pressure - a slight stiffening. He released his breath, trembling slightly. The hammer snapped home.